by Ruby Jackson
‘You didn’t have time to ring me? Remember my teeny, weeny guestroom.’
Rose explained that there had been no time to do anything, and told Cleo that she had been billeted by the army.
‘Terrif. You can have dinner with me tonight. Not much, home-made vegetable soup, followed by, wait for it, a real boiled egg – I have two fresh ones from never mind where – and, for pudding, a tin of pears.’
‘I’d love to, Cleo, but my landlady expects me.’
‘And will be absolutely delighted not to have to use her extra rations. I’ll ring her – we’re bound to have her on our list. We haven’t seen each other for ages and we can talk our heads off and then I’ll put you on the right bus. What do you say?’
What could Rose say but yes?
She walked around London, seeing for the first time signs of the devastation with which every Londoner was only too familiar. She gazed at the magnificence of the Parliament building and then at the damaged St Thomas’s Hospital, which stood directly opposite on the other bank of the Thames. For a moment she wondered if the poor light was playing tricks with her eyes. There did not seem to be any windows. She gazed and realised, to her horror, that the windows – or where she thought windows might have been – had been completely bricked up. She knew the sprawl of the famous hospital had been severely damaged earlier in the war. Had every window been blown out, causing who-knew-what appalling injury to life and supplies?
How do they work? How do surgeons operate? Artificial light? Those poor nurses and doctors, they must feel like moles. So help me, I will never complain again – about anything.
She climbed the steps of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square and was disappointed to find that the building was empty, not just of people, but of paintings.
‘Don’t you read the papers, love? They’ve all been buried for the duration. We don’t want no more of our ’eritage bombed to bits, do we? There’s been such a moan, though, that one picture gets brought in now and again for a little exhibition. We even has piano players like…now what was ’er name? Hess, that was it. Very German sound, that, but the punters seemed to love ’er. Some was crying, would you believe? You stationed here, then read the papers and come another day.’
Not a terribly exciting visit to the great gallery. I’ll come back when the war is over, Rose promised herself, and then, since it was too dark and cold to do anything else, she walked back to Cleo’s office and waited for her.
Cleo’s little flat, the basement of a charming house in Chelsea, was a delight. ‘And all this is yours? How amazing to have your own flat.’
‘Even though we’re in Chelsea, which is quite upmarket, Mummy thinks I’m living in semi-squalor. She hasn’t visited. She’s afraid of London, afraid of everything, poor old thing, especially with this break in the lull or, who knows, maybe the end of it. We keep telling her how well the barrage balloons work and we tell her the RAF is too good for what’s left of the German air force, but she just can’t handle it. Cries all over me, “Come home, darling.” But I love my work; love doing something useful, as you do. Dad pops in from time to time. He brought me the eggs, very naughty, from a local farm. There were three, but I ate one yesterday and thought two would make a nice omelette, but doesn’t the thought of a soft-boiled egg with toast soldiers make you feel all safe?’
‘Not sure if I feel nostalgic, but it does definitely say Sunday supper before the war.’
‘That’s nostalgia talking. Here, have a sherry. Pa brought it up on Sunday but he drank some and then, well, I’m not living like a nun; Arthur had some the other night after the cinema.’
‘Arthur?’ asked Rose as she accepted a small glassful of a golden liquid.
‘Just a chum. He works with me, or really I work with him. We’re encryptors.’ She looked at Rose, who appeared unsure. ‘We take a message and put it into a special code; sometimes it’s the other way around. But you’re driving. Didn’t I tell you that you would be?’
‘Yes, you did. This is only my second assignment. Usually I drive military vehicles full of personnel and/or equipment.’
‘Hold on.’ Cleo went into her tiny kitchen and came out with the soup tureen. ‘A different job every day?’
‘Today a posh car, tomorrow an ambulance. The next day I might have to take an engine apart.’
‘Your poor nails.’
They both laughed at that. What a Sally-like remark. Rose felt sixteen again. ‘Tell me about Arthur.’
‘Luckily he doesn’t set any bells ringing. I’m not completely sure, but I don’t think he’s really into girls, if you know what I mean. Awfully kind, though, and manages to get into decent restaurants. There are one or two old “squeezes”, but one’s in India and God knows where the other one is. Now you tell me everything about your love life. The ATS – there must be a thousand gorgeous men lining up.’
Rose smiled. ‘Possibly, but they’re usually covered in oil or they haven’t had a shave for a week, and all they beg me to do is, “Fix it, Gorgeous.”’
‘And apart from the great unwashed?’
‘There’s Brad.’
‘Your face and voice said it all, Rose. Tell me. Brad? Unusual Christian name.’
‘It’s Bradley, Bradley Hastings. He’s the American who rescued us when I had the blow-out. But I’ve only seen him a few times.’
‘That’s all it takes. He sounds like an officer. Tall, handsome, rich?’
With a shriek Cleo jumped up and ran into the kitchen. ‘I forgot the eggs. Oh, they’ll be like rocks.’
They were not runny but neither were they hard.
‘They’ve survived. That’s your Bradley’s fault. Bradley. I’ve heard that name recently – or read it. Is he an officer?’
‘No, a sergeant.’
‘I don’t suppose he’s an oil millionaire from Oklahoma. If he is, does he have a brother?’
‘He’s East Coast and is an only child. That egg was absolutely delicious. We get powdered these days.’
The grandmother clock in the hallway began to chime and automatically Rose counted. ‘Oh Lord, Cleo. It’s nine o’clock. I’ll have to dash. I’m so sorry.’
In her head she could hear Iris Bamber reminding her that she liked to be in bed before nine.
I’ll creep in.
Cleo looked at her own watch as if she too could not believe how long they had been eating and chatting. ‘Come on, grab your coat. The bus stop is just round the corner on the King’s Road.’ She was tying the belt of her own coat as she spoke. ‘Oh, Rose, I wish you could stay here tonight, but it would lead to problems. Next time just tell them and it will be fine.’
They hurried out. The night was dark but there was a sliver of a moon and some stars helped. They almost bumped into someone walking a dog and he swore at them. ‘What are you doing out at this time? Get yourselves off home.’
‘Our local arbiter of morals. Don’t worry. He would have yelled just as loudly at seven, and I’m sure he peers through his curtains – looking for spies, says Arthur, or anyone else being naughty.’
They turned the corner onto the main road and were just in time for Rose to catch her first bus. ‘Just tell the driver which bus you need next and he’ll let you off. It’s been wonderful. Let me know when you’re coming back.’
Rose jumped on the bus; as it trundled off, she looked back and, through the crisscrossed tapes on the windows, saw Cleo turning the corner. She would be inside her lovely little flat long before Rose arrived at her digs.
How quickly the time had passed and what a lovely evening they had shared. It had been as if they’d never been separated. Rose smiled happily as the bus travelled slowly out of Chelsea and into South Kensington. Even though it was almost impossible to see clearly, she tried to guess more or less what she was passing: the Victoria and Albert Museum, Brompton Oratory, eventually the Royal Albert Hall. She vowed that, as soon as the war was over, she would actually visit some of them. Another bus with blue-painted windows
took her close to Kensington Gardens, and she tried in vain to look for lights that might come from Kensington Palace, which she thought must be close.
She got off the bus on the Bayswater Road and, a few minutes later, was at her lodgings. Mrs Bamber was sitting in the hall with a lighted candle, wearing her nightclothes, her hair excruciatingly rolled into a tortured mass of metal curlers.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Rose. ‘I hadn’t seen my friend for a year.’
‘All right, love, and there’s cocoa on the ’ob, if you want to ’elp yourself. My Iris is at the pictures with ’er mates. ’Ope she doesn’t wake you.’
Since Rose had had no time for a cup of tea, she did indeed pour herself a cup of Mrs Bamber’s cocoa. She whispered ‘Good night’ as she passed her.
When she had washed and was ready for bed, she saw her landlady still sitting on the bottom stair, waiting to hear her daughter’s footsteps, just as her own parents had done in the past, and no doubt still would.
FIFTEEN
Next morning, Rose and Iris were both awake with the larks. The smell of frying bacon filled every corner of the comfortable house, and Rose, very surprised but delighted, was given three slices of bacon with her toast.
‘That’s too generous, Mrs Bamber,’ she said, unable to bring herself to breakfast on lovely bacon while the others were eating porridge.
‘Nonsense, it’s yours lawful. If you ’adn’t been out last night, it would ’ave been your supper.’
‘If you’re sure…Thanks very much.’
‘Iris saw a lovely picture last night, didn’t you, Iris? Mrs. Miniver, it was called, with Walter Pidgeon; ’e’s ever such a lovely man. I always believe ’e is the person ’e’s pretending to be.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ agreed Rose, ‘and I bet Greer Garson was lovely. Even her name is pretty.’
Iris stopped eating for a moment, then said, ‘Go and see it for yourselves. I think they’re only allowed two or three showings before it has to go somewhere else, but don’t watch it if you cry easily, like Mum. Your ninepence would be wasted, Mum.’ Iris got up, taking a cup of tea with her, and went upstairs to get ready for her shift.
‘She does love to tease me; knows perfectly well I’ll love every minute, even if they all get killed. And they will, won’t they, since it’s about the war?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. People would be furious if Greer Garson was to be killed and my mum would be livid if they did anything bad to Walter.’ Rose put her napkin down and stood up. ‘I have no plans for this evening, Mrs Bamber, so I’ll come back here when my shift’s finished.’
‘All right, love. If I’m not in, there’s a spare key under the middle plant pot on the top step.’
Rose thanked her and went off to get ready, all the time wondering where she would be driving today.
‘Worked beautifully, Rose; take a look at that.’ The commander handed Rose a large-circulation Brighton newspaper.
On the front page was a picture headed ‘Prime Minister takes the air’. There was the seafront. There in the background were the windblown old men, and waving to them enthusiastically was none other than the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.
‘When was that taken?’
‘I wasn’t there, Miss Petrie. You know more than I.’
‘But I didn’t see anyone with a camera or even see a flash, and there’s bound to have been a flash, isn’t there, sir?’
‘Obviously I know as much about the art of photography as you do, but frankly, I don’t care, the photograph was taken. There it is in the paper. No doubt other papers will pick it up. Newspapers never lie, Miss Petrie. Yesterday the Prime Minister was in Brighton. You see his picture there in black and white. Have a good day, Miss Petrie, wherever you go.’
He was gone before she could say anything. She wondered what his name was. She still thought of him as ‘the butler’, but here he was addressed as ‘Commander’. She should have asked her parents the name of the owner of the great house, Silvertides, where she had met him first. Was he the owner, or an important visitor? Surely important visitors did not answer doorbells. Next time she was at home, or when she wrote, she would ask, definitely.
‘Lance Corporal Petrie.’ The quiet voice came from the corridor down which the commander had disappeared. ‘Your car is in the mews. Your passenger will tell you where you are to drive him. Please go to the canteen and ask for a Thermos flask of tea or coffee and a sandwich. One never knows in our line of work when one will be fed, or even when one might make oneself comfortable, may I say. Take advantage of the building’s facilities, Miss Petrie. It may be a long day.’
The uniformed man, whoever he was, turned and walked back down the corridor. A door opened and he disappeared inside.
‘Very Penny Dreadful,’ said Rose to herself, quoting something she had heard her father and eldest brother say. They meant that whatever was happening was like the tales of espionage or derring-do that appeared in the inexpensive magazines that were very popular in the United States. She decided to take the unknown man’s advice, so hurried off to the canteen, where a reluctant assistant eventually allowed her to borrow a small Thermos flask. She looked at the food selection and, conscious of her coupons and what her mother would say about her choices, she bought a small bar of chocolate and a bread roll. A chocolate sandwich would make, she decided happily, the perfect lunch, especially after a hearty breakfast of toast and grilled bacon.
Once ready she went out to the mews, put her lunch in the car, and, again thrilled by the sheer joy of being allowed to drive such a luxury vehicle, moved it to the back door, where a very large London policeman stood watching the human traffic.
‘Waiting for a passenger, miss?’
‘Yes, Officer, my orders are to wait for them almost on the very spot where you’re standing.’
He laughed. ‘Then I’ll move myself back a step against the door, miss. This door isn’t easily overlooked, and if anyone was on a roof over there, or up one of them trees – and seems they’d have to be monkeys to get there – and they was curious, like, and wanted a peek at anyone coming in or going out, I doubt they’d see through a delicate little lad like me.’
‘Perhaps that’s why you’re here this morning, Officer.’
‘Move your car, love. They’ll be here in a tick.’
Rose smiled at him. ‘Yes, Officer.’
She had no sooner repositioned the car and opened the passenger door when her passengers, hidden from the view of any monkeys in the trees by the large policeman, came out of the office building, bent down and got into the car. The policeman saluted and closed the door.
Rose heard a voice that she knew well say, ‘Buckingham Palace.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, trying to keep a tiny shake from attacking her vocal cords. She turned on the engine and eased the car away from the door and out into the road.
It would have been quicker for them to walk, since the roads were busy with mid-morning traffic, but eventually Rose reached the magnificent gates and halted. The policeman at the gate saluted and waved the car forward.
‘Follow the driveway,’ said the voice, and Rose obeyed.
I am in the grounds of the King’s palace. Wait till I tell Mum.
She followed the road, looking hopefully for a covered entrance, where it would be easy, in any type of weather, to leave a vehicle, a car, even a coach, or dismount from a horse, without getting wet. She taxied the car to a halt exactly at the foot of a flight of stone stairs and had time to notice the two men who had hurried out of the door at the top of the stairs. One opened the passenger door and stood back to allow her VIP to get out. He did. Ignoring everyone, he walked up two stairs before turning as if to return to the car. There was a blinding flash of light, so unexpected that Rose jumped. She heard a laugh behind her where her second passenger still sat.
‘The press, my dear Miss Petrie. The Prime Minister has an urgent meeting this morning with His Majesty. Stay with the car
until we’re inside and then you’ll be told where to park. Hope you brought a good book. If not, borrow my Times; it’s on the back seat.’
The men disappeared inside the building and Rose sat, as she had been ordered. While she waited she tried to imagine where they were and what they were doing. Were there opulent red carpets on all the stairs, sparkling chandeliers hanging from every ceiling? Oh, just to have had the tiniest peek inside. She was trying to work out what would really happen if the King were to meet Mr Churchill inside. Did Mr Churchill bow or did the King say, ‘Good morning, Winston, do sit down’?
A rap on her window startled her. ‘Shift it round the back, love. Don’t have to back up, just follow your nose.’
The footman, or whatever, whoever he was, had an accent that came straight out of the East End.
Rose laughed at herself as she ‘shifted it’. She had thought every accent heard in this historic, magnificent building would have been fashioned out of cut glass, and was at first disappointed and then delighted by democracy in action.
She parked where she was directed and then, as the cold March winds caused the temperature inside the car to drop, she got out, removed a tartan rug from the boot, and wrapped herself in it before returning to her seat. She sat watching what she could see of buildings, trees, and beautifully intricate wrought-iron gates that looked more like works of art than mere gates, until the windscreen had completely frosted over. She poured herself a small cup of the coffee she had brought with her – she had no idea how long she would be and so judged it better to save some for later – and sipped it slowly. Probably because she was cold, she thought it tasted better than any coffee she had ever had. She got out, stamped her feet to get her circulation moving again, reached into the back seat for The Times, returned to the driver’s seat and began to read, from cover to cover.
What price the glamorous job of driver for VIPs now? Why, oh why, had she not worn trousers?
Suddenly the window was dark beside her and then the door opened. ‘Lord above, girl, stay in there much longer and they’ll have to chip you out.’ A uniformed policeman bent over and took her hand. ‘Did no one tell you to take a pew in the sentry box? Come on, they’ve got a little heater in there, an’ all.’
